


You Are Coming Down With Me

by TheLionInMyBed



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (but only of chapter 6), (sort of. It's complicated), Animal Abuse, Child Abuse, Depression, Drug Abuse, Eye Trauma, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Podfic Available, Spiders, Stockholm Syndrome, Story within a Story, Unconventional Families
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-16 08:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8094352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLionInMyBed/pseuds/TheLionInMyBed
Summary: In which Elrond wants to understand his new parents and Elros wants them dead, Maglor wants a redemption arc and Maedhros wants everything to stop.Vignettes set throughout the life of Beleriand's least functional found family.





	1. I hope we come up with a fail-safe plot to piss off the dumb few that forgave us

**Author's Note:**

> If you [follow me on tumblr](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com) you've already seen the first four chapters. The new content starts with chapter five! Title and chapter names from 'No Children' by the Mountain Goats.

Another day of aimless wandering. Another dismal night spent under canvas.

Every evening, once the tents were pitched and dinner eaten, Maglor would come and sing them a lullaby to make them sleep. To ensure they got enough rest, he said, for they were growing children. To keep them from waking the whole camp with their nightmares, said Elrond to Elros. To keep them from running, said Elros back.

They wished he wouldn’t but they knew what they were to him even if he liked to pretend otherwise.

“Call me Maglor,” he had told them, on the second day, once he had changed out of his bloody armour and the twins had stopped screaming and sobbing long enough that he could get a word in edgewise. “Or Father. And this is your Uncle Maedhros.” Uncle Maedhros, still dressed in gore-crusted mail, had snorted.

They did not call him Father because he was not their father and because Elrond thought it hurt him that they didn’t, just a little. Maglor they called Maglor and Maedhros they did not address at all, any more than he addressed them. He at least did not pretend and Elros said he liked him better for it. Elrond thought that monsters were monsters no matter the masks they wore.

It was an argument they’d had often, shut up in their tent awaiting Maglor and awaiting sleep.

It was not one they had thought to hear echoed outside the canvas.

“Which one do you like best?” Not a whisper. Battle plans and burials, a description of their mother’s fall; Maedhros never cared if they overheard.

“ _No_.” Maglor at least tried to speak quietly but his was a voice meant for screaming commands across a battlefield and singing stone walls into dust. They heard him just as well as his brother.

“No?”

“You’re trying to upset me.”

“Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. I think you’ve forgotten why we took them.”

“And sometimes you’re cruel for no good reason at all. They’re children.”

“Yes.” A scrape of metal suggested a shrug. “Which one?”

“It won’t come to that. Gil-Galad isn’t foolish enough-”

“How many times have we said ‘it won’t come to that’ over the ages? It will come to it and it will be easier if you accept it now.”

“I’m not going to murder children to make a point.”

“ _A_ child,” said Maedhros, as mildly as his hoarse croak of a voice allowed for. “Singular. One to warn and one to trade. I’d almost forgotten how convenient twins are.”

“You _are_ trying to upset me.” Even bitter realisation sounded sweet in Maglor’s voice.  

“How many people are dead at our hands? The count is staggering. _Monumental_.” A crow’s cackle of a laugh. “Indeed the Haudh-en-Ndengin stands as testament to our failures. Do you think two children make a difference either way?”

“You did.”

A pause.

“We needed hostages. Then as now.”

A longer silence.

“Elrond.”

“Which?”

“The quiet one.”

“Sensible. The other bites.”

“I hate you.” Said with little rancour. “ _He_ would hate you.”

“Yes.”

Another pause and then the sound of booted feet walking away. The canvas twitched aside and bright-eyed Maglor came to kneel beside their bedrolls. “What shall I sing for you tonight?”

Elros had his eyes screwed shut to keep the furious tears at bay. Elrond ran his tongue over his teeth. He would not bite but he squeezed his brother’s hand and said, “The Noldolantë,” to watch Maglor’s face fall.


	2. I hope when you think of me years down the line, you can't find one good thing to say

“What happened to our mother?”

“Well,” said Maglor. He struck a cord. “Once upon a time there was a princess, swan fair and light of foot-”

“She jumped off a cliff,” said Maedhros. 

“She- yes, yes she did. She jumped and fell and flew, borne up by great, white wings. They carried her, swift and safe, over the vast salt wastes of the sea until she found the tiny boat where her true love awaited her.”

“I checked the rocks afterwards,” said Maedhros. “The gulls and crabs had been at her but-”

“Ahahaha no more stories it’s time for bed.”

***

“They’re asleep,” Maglor said, taking his seat across the campfire and giving the embers a desultory poke.

Maedhros made a noise that might have been acknowledgement or annoyance. He was sharpening his sword again and the dull scrape of the whetstone set Maglor’s teeth on edge. 

“You never did find the body,” he said.

“No. I didn’t.”  _ Scrape.  _

“Why lie? Are you so determined that they despise us?”

“Yes.”  _ Scrape. Scrape. Scrape.  _

“What did those children do to us that we should be so cruel?”

Maedhros paused and cocked his head. The shadows thrown by the firelight made his face something grotesque. More grotesque than usual. “Do you think what you’re trying to do is kindness?”

“They have no one left and the least we can do is-”

“-Is let them hold on to their hate. We’re their captors and the worst thing we can do is make them grateful to us. For comfort, for food, for an end to pain-”

“So this is a  _ moral  _ stance?” Maglor laughed, spiteful and off key. The latter bothered him more. “I’m astonished. I knew you’d made an art form of self righteousness but this must be your masterpiece.”

“Do as you will. I shan’t interfere further.” Maedhros took up the whetstone again and Maglor left him to his bitterness and his blades. 


	3. I hope it bleeds all day long

Elrond woke to an empty bed. Elros’ tangle of blankets still held some lingering warmth but their occupant was long gone and Elrond staggered to his feet with his heartbeat thundering in his ears. Hadn’t they always said that Elros would die first? The knife that Elros kept beneath his pillow, filched from an inattentive soldier, was gone also and that made the fear so bad Elrond could scarcely breathe through it.

 _Save him or avenge him_. The thought drove him from the room and out into the shadowed corridor but Elros had always been the brave one and what could Elrond do unarmed and in his nightshirt? He went anyway, the stones icy cold beneath his bare feet, gnawing at his toes like the cold waves in the coves beneath Sirion.

No guards accosted him though he heard booted footsteps echo through the ancient hillfort as he picked his way towards the glow of firelight coming from the ruined great hall. If the Fëanorians were about, if they had his brother, they were as likely there as anywhere.

The hall was as barren as ever, empty but for two. Elros - _alive!_ \- sat at the high table with a bruise shadowing his jaw and a book open before him. Maedhros Fëanorian was across from him, bare chested and darning a shirt. Shirt and chest both were dark with blood, black in the firelight. It had been near a year since the kinslaying but suddenly Elrond’s memories were fresh and wet and red. He pressed his hands to his mouth - it was important to be quiet, not to let them hear you, Nurse had said - and pressed back against the shadowed doorframe. In the hearth, the fire snapped and crackled, there had been fire then and smoke so thick he could not see Elros right beside him. But no, Elros was there, across the room, and Nurse was dead and-

“Can you tell me why it failed?” A voice like steel on stone.

“This.” Elros said, calm and surly. Safe. Alive. He tapped the page before him.

“Yes,” Maedhros said. “Think of your bones as a suit of armour worn beneath the skin. You _could_ shatter the breastbone with enough force just as you _could_ stab through a suit of mail. Easier though to strike where your enemy’s armour is weak. If you slide your blade in beneath the ribcage here-” he indicated the proper place upon his own chest, fingers coming away bloody “-and then angle it up, you will do much better.

“The heart may be poetic but the throat is easier and tends to be less armoured. The veins and arteries, the windpipe, the spine - you can hardly fail to hit something vital though you might need to grow a little first.”

“Or wait for my foe to sleep.”

“Well I hardly need to tell you that.” Maedhros bit off the thread and set the shirt aside. “Do you know how to sew?”

Elrond realised with a start that it was he and not his brother that was addressed. He nodded and, though Maedhros still had not turned to look, he seemed to accept it as an answer.

“Good. Come here. I have a lesson for you also.” Maedhros poured out a measure from the bottle at his elbow and dropped in the needle and thread. It gave off a sharp stink of alcohol. “This isn’t strictly necessary; an unclean wound will leave an Elf an ugly scar but do no further harm.” He gestured vaguely to his face. “But Men and, maybe, you two must be more careful. Infection is a more certain killer than orcs upon the field.”

Orcs had never been the enemy, not for them. Obedient, Elrond had always been the obedient one, he came to stand at Maedhros’ side just out of reach. From that angle he could see the wound properly. It was deep, bone deep he thought. Not that long but dripping, long threads of gore caught up in the tangle of pale scars that covered Maedhros’ chest.

He swayed and Maedhros grabbed him by the shoulder - Elrond had misjudged his reach. “Never mind the blood,” Maedhros said and pressed him down onto the bench beside him, not ungently. “You’ll get used to it.”

“As you did?”

“Let’s hope not quite that used to it.” He was harder to rile than Maglor. “The wound is clean and fairly straight. You want to keep as close as you can to the edges but deep enough the thread won’t tear free. Pinch it closed with one hand and stitch with the other. It’s no different from darning a shirt, really.” He offered up the mug of spirits and Elrond fished out the needle, wrinkling his nose as Maedhros downed the dregs.

Still, Elrond hesitated. It wasn’t that he cared whether he hurt Maedhros but there was something about the thought of plunging a needle into living flesh that turned his stomach. He remembered the soldiers that had been set to guard him with their guts all spilt out like blind, crawling worms and-

“Boy?” Maedhros surely knew their names but made a point of never using them.

“Elrond?” A challenge glittered in Elros’ dark eyes. Elrond was not his brother but he could do no less. He took up the needle and began to sew.

Blood coated his hands, slick then sticky, but it was not so hard as he had feared. Maedhros was so still and silent he might as well have been a shirt, and as the edges of the wound drew closed beneath his fingers, raw meat turning back into healthy flesh, he felt, obscurely, better. Not all hurts could be mended, surely not, but some. Some things could be healed.

“Neat work,” Maedhros said when he was finished. “Well done. Now back to bed, both of you. Yes, keep the knife,” he said when Elros glared. “And the book. Don’t look so glum. There’s always next time.”

Elros tired of anatomy quickly, as he tired of most things. He did not really need the tome anyway - killing was far easier than mending. Elrond loved the book though. The diagrams of veins laid out like the spreading branches of a tree, bones and muscles free of blood and neatly categorized. It went a long way to muting the horror of remembrance. With every broken bone he set and burn he salved, the screams grew a little quieter.

He wondered, once, if Maedhros had intended that.

He doubted it.


	4. I hope I never get sober

Maglor had not intended to stay out until long into Telperion’s silver waxing but he had been so caught up in his music that he had not noted the passage of time. Or so he would tell his parents if they asked; really he had sought an opportunity to avoid the chaos of the household. With the twins out of leading strings and into everything, his other brothers their usual strident selves and their parents at each other’s throats when they were speaking at at all, it was not an atmosphere conducive to his compositions or his sanity.

Apparently he had not been the only member of his family driven to distraction. As he picked his way towards his room he almost tripped over his eldest brother who lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs.

Maedhros blinked at him. “Why are you up so late?” he said, managing, despite his undignified position, to sound more like their mother than their mother herself usually did.

“Why are you lying on the floor? Are you well?”

“I’m marshaling my reserves. For the ascent.” Maedhros spoke slowly, as though every word required great thought.

“Are you drunk?” The question hardly needed to be asked - slurred speech aside, Maglor could smell the wine on him - but that made it no easier to believe. It was Maedhros that made judgmental faces but held back his brothers’ hair whilst they vomited, fetched them water and saw them safely home. The reverse was near unthinkable.

“I’m just resting,” Maedhros said. “You should go to bed.”

“I’m not going anywhere. _I’m_ not the responsible one,” said Maglor and hauled his brother up. Maedhros came to his feet easily and then listed so badly Maglor had to seize him about the waist and drape his arm across his shoulders. “Were you out with Fingon?”

“Pff. The twins could outdrink Fingon. It was Finrod. I don’t know where he puts it. It must be a Teleri thing. All that water.”

That was a statement too illogical to argue with and so Maglor focused on getting them both up the stairs in one piece. Supporting his brother’s weight was no great task but maneuvering someone so uncoordinated and inconveniently tall took most of his concentration, so it was not until he had shouldered open the door to Maedhros’ chambers and deposited him upon the bed that he thought to ask the obvious questions.

“How much have you had?”

Maedhros held up three unsteady fingers.

“Three glasses or three bottles?”

“Shh. Don’t worry, Maglor. I’m fine. Maglor. _Maglor_. You’ve always been like a brother to me. You do know that?”

Maglor could not hide his smile. “I _am_ your brother.”

“I know. It’s very convenient.” Despite the fog of alcohol, Maedhros’ eyes were very bright and the pinched look he had worn these last few years was smoothed away. Maglor remembered, suddenly, how small the gap between their ages really was.

“It is.” There was a carafe of water upon the nightstand and Maglor poured some out. “Drink this while I get your boots off.”

“I’m sorry,” Maedhros mumbled into the cup as Maglor untangled his laces. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“You’ve done it often enough for me. I know your lecture on dignity and family honour by heart and be assured you’ll be hearing it tomorrow.”

“Not too early. Please.”

“I’ll wait until after breakfast,” Maglor said with great forbearance, as though he did not intend to sleep until noon himself. He nudged the chamberpot out from beneath the bed. “If you feel sick-”

“‘M fine,” Maedhros said into the pillow.

Maglor patted his shoulder and then made his way towards the door and his own bed. “Sleep well.”

***

Maglor had not intended to stay out until long after the moon’s rise but time did not pass as it once had; it went by in confusing stutter stops and long, dead periods of nothing. It did not matter. The twins were well guarded and his soldiers knew better than to question his comings and goings.

In the dark he almost almost tripped over his brother who lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs. Maedhros did not respond when Maglor called his name or dug the toe of his boot into his ribs. It was not until Maglor drew back his foot and kicked him in the gut that he stirred.

There was a blur of movement that ended with his brother half risen and a knife pressed to Maglor’s groin, cold metal aligned with the femoral artery where it lay beneath cloth and skin.

It was a long moment, even after recognition had dawned in Maedhros’ eyes, before he lowered the knife.

“This is pathetic,” Maglor said. “Don’t let the children see you like this.” There was broken glass upon the steps and his brother stank of stale alcohol and unwashed clothing, old vomit and ancient blood.

“Fuck off.” Maedhros slumped back to the ground and closed his eyes. Another minute and he was snoring.

Maglor kicked him again - the body was corpse-limp - until he flopped over onto his side. It wasn’t that he _cared_ if his brother choked to death on his own vomit but that would be letting him off far too lightly.


	5. I hope you blink before I do

“Perhaps it would be better if I tutored you separately,” Maglor said sadly, nursing his bitten hand.

Elros glared. The fierce triumph he’d felt when the skin had parted beneath his teeth had drained away and now he felt cold and slightly sick. He would not be harmed - Maglor said he loved them much too well and Maedhros said he did not care who they bit - but Elrond had refused to speak to him since he did it, which was worse than any beating.

It was Elrond he’d done it _for_ after all, when Maglor reached out with unconscious, paternal care to brush the hair back from his forehead. And now Elrond sat across the room from him at Maglor’s side, cleaning the wound, industrious and remote.

“Separate us?” Elros said. “Like you separated us from our mother?”

“Hush, love. You know it did not happen so. Perhaps you could work out your excess aggression upon the training yard. Maed-”

“No.” Maedhros did not look up from his ledgers.

“Think how much more useful he’d be if he knew how to fight,” Maglor said, as though he did not know as well as Elros the use that Maedhros hoped to put him to.

Maedhros made an irritated noise that could almost be taken for acquiescence.

“Thank you,” said Maglor. “Come, Elrond. We can bandage this in the infirmary, and then continue your lessons on herblore.”

Elros did not want lessons on herblore and nor did he want to see Elrond hang on Maglor’s every word, fascinated despite himself, but he wanted even less to be left behind. “I won’t bite again,” he mumbled.

“Elros, darling, it isn’t just the biting. I want you to be happy and I want Elrond to be happy but you bring out the worst in each other, you really do. He makes you aggressive, you make him withdrawn and you’re both left utterly miserable. You’ll thank me when you’re older.”

Maedhros made another noise - less obviously irritated and thus less easily deciphered.

“Stop sniggering and take him outside,” Maglor snapped. “You’ve been staring at the same page for the past half hour and you might as well do something useful.”

“As you will,” Maedhros said and rose to his feet, tall and nightmare-gaunt. “Don’t come crying to me though if you wake with a dagger through your eye.”

***

The sword was live steel, the metal rippled through like water, and Elros did not think he’d ever seen a lovelier sight.

“I could kill you,” he said, wrapping both hands about the hilt. Though it was heavy, the point did not waver as he held it out.

Maedhros took a final drink from the flask he always carried and then set it aside. “Not like that you couldn’t. Feet apart, right leg back. Better. Sainil, come here.”

One of the soldiers loitering in the courtyard stepped forwards, drawing her own blade.

“You won’t fight me yourself? Are you afraid?”

“Yes, this is a sinister plot to escape your vengeance.” Maedhros raised his arm to show the hook it terminated in. “It will be easier to learn against someone right handed.”

“Maglor said that _you_ were to teach me.”

“Since when do you abide by what my brother says? Sainil will show you the basics if you’re inclined to learn, or you can flail at her until you’re spent, whichever suits you best. I have other duties.”

“Other people to fail?” Maglor had said that once and it had ended whatever argument they’d been having in an instant.

Maedhros raised an eyebrow. “Thirty years I endured the Enemy’s scorn and yet here I am brought low by a child’s insults,” he said, his voice inflectionless. “As you will.”

Sainil stepped back so that her lord might take her place. Maedhros let his sword hang slack in his grip, the point resting upon the ground.

Elros bared his teeth, hefted his sword above his head and charged.

Maedhros did not move, save to flick his own sword up so that the point aligned with Elros’ chest. Almost too late Elros twisted aside before his own momentum could impale him, falling ungracefully to one knee.

“It is all very well killing your opponent, but your first priority should be walking away from the fight with at least as many limbs as you started with. Safety first,” Maedhros said, as though he had not almost run a child through.

Elros’ knee was grazed but not, he thought, very badly. He ignored the stinging pain and said, “Is that what happened to you?”

“In a manner of speak-” he was cut off as Elros came up from his crouch, sword rising with him.

This time Maedhros blocked the blow but did nothing more as Elros strained against him, trying to force his blade aside. “You’re not going to overcome me through brute force,” he said, no strain evident in his voice. “You’re what, twenty?”

“Eleven,” Elros got out through gritted teeth.

“ _Peredhil_. Either way, when your opponent is stronger than you, it’s foolish to try to match him. Use your weakness - relax your wrists, let your blade turn _so_ -” Suddenly the resistance Elros had been pressing into was gone as Maedhros’ sword slid aside. He overbalanced and Maedhros’ boot to the back of his knee sent him sprawling to the floor. “If your opponent’s overcommitted, as you were, they’ll leave an opening,” he added, the tip of his blade to Elros’ throat.

It was the most Elros had ever heard him speak. Was it the opportunity to teach that brought that out or the violence? His eyes were disinterested, even as the sword pressed harder, forcing Elros to flatten himself against the ground.

“Let me up,” he said, bruised, humiliated and, little as he cared to admit it, frightened.

Maedhros shrugged, sheathed his sword, and went to reclaim his flask.

***

“And how was your day, Elros?” Maglor asked him over dinner.

“Fine.” After Maedhros had left, Sainil had given him an edgeless training blade and run him through the most basic of drills with it. There were blisters upon his palms and aches strung through his muscles but he found he did not mind them.

“I hope my brother wasn’t too hard on you,” Maglor said gently, carving the roasted pheasant that was their supper. He laid a slice upon Elros’ plate. “He can’t always help it.”

“He was fine.”

“You don’t need to defend him.”

“I’m not.”

“We were as close as you and Elrond once but that was long ago,” Maglor said wistfully. He took a neat forkful of pheasant, chewed and swallowed. “I loved him dearly and I couldn’t tell you when I stopped, only that I did. I had to. He’s not the man he was but the creature the Enemy made of him.”

“What’s your excuse?”

“Elros! I am trying my hardest to provide a safe, nurturing home for you and your brother and I do not appreciate your ingratitude. You’re upsetting Elrond and you’re upsetting me. I do not wish to send you to bed without supper but if you keep trying me then you’ll leave me no choice.”

Elros tried to catch Elrond’s eye but his twin would not look up from his plate. “I won’t.”

“Good.”

They ate in silence then, but for the clatter of cutlery and Elrond’s mumbled request for more carrots. Silence until a hand and hook came to rest upon the table at Elros’ side and he looked about with a startled yelp.

Maedhros, for someone so tall and clad in so much armour, moved very quietly when he chose to.

He ignored Elros and, leaning across the table, tore a leg from the pheasant with a gristly pop.

“Manners!” Maglor cried. “What kind of example are you setting the children?”

Maedhros paused in gnawing at the bone. “What _will_ they think of us? Although last night you had them eating trout without a fish knife so I fear we are as bad as each other.”

“I do the best I can with what we have. That is no excuse to act like orcs.”

“You’re as bad as orcs,” said Elros - it was safe to say it now. Maglor never punished him when his brother was there to snipe at.

“Worse,” said Maedhros. The bone picked clean, he tossed into the hearth and wiped his mouth upon his sleeve. “No orc ever had a choice.”

“Oh, now we have a choice?" said Maglor, voice sharp and lovely as Elros' sword. "That is not what you said at Doriath.”

“I’m through with lying to myself. You might care to try it too.”

“You want me to be more like you? Should I too become a miserable cripple, marinating in drink and my own failures? Do you think Fin-”

Maedhros was across the room, half lifting Maglor from his chair before anyone could react. His hook twisted in the front of his brother’s robes, a red stain blooming upon the fabric. “Say what you will of me but don’t _ever_ -”

“Boys, go to your room,” Maglor said tightly, the carving knife still in his hand.

Laughing, Maedhros pulled him closer. “Gods forbid that they should see us fight. They might remember all sorts of uncomfortable things.”

“ _Boys_. Go.”

Elrond seized Elros’ hand and together they fled. Behind them metal screeched on metal and Maedhros laughed harder.

***

It was a rare night that both of them slept well, and if one of them could not, neither of them did. Maglor had offered to put them in separate rooms or separate beds but Elros had sulked and Elrond had pleaded until he backed down.

Neither of them was inclined to sleep tonight. They’d pushed the nightstand before the door and now huddled together, holding hands beneath the blankets.

“You see what they are?” Elros said into the dark.

“They’re trying. Maglor is trying so hard.”

“They killed our mother.”

“She lives. She flew. She left.”

“So Maglor said. Maglor _lies_. You used to know that.”

“He didn’t have to take us.”

“They wanted hostages. I know you heard.”

“Maedhros says things he doesn’t mean.”

“Did Maglor say that too?”

“If Mother had only given them the jewel-”

“It was Great Grandmother that won it. They had no right-”

“Their father made it. They swore to find it. They had no choice.”

“They did.” Elros pulled his hand away.

_We were as close as you and Elrond once but that was long ago._

Would that be them one day? Twisted, hateful creatures with nothing left between them but bitterness? Live long enough and would he be a monster too? He could keep fighting and lose Elrond or forget his mother and his father, forgive the murders and let Maglor make him into whatever pleased him.

Elros had held his tears since Sirion but he wept now, silently, biting down upon his knuckles so that Elrond would not hear his sobs. His twin knew anyway though - they could not not hide such things from each other - and pressed closer, small and warm and steady as he had always been, all the days of their lives.

“You can’t keep fighting them like this,” Elrond whispered. “You won’t win.”

Elros scrubbed at his face and forced his voice back under control. “It’s not about winning.”

“That sounds like something Maedhros would say. Do you want to be like him?”

Surely not. But good advice was good advice, no matter the source. _When your opponent is stronger than you, it’s foolish to try to match him_ , Maedhros had told him upon the yard and Elros could win at words with Maglor, no more than he could best his brother with blades.

“I’ll be wiser,” he said at last.

He could _feel_ the sharp look Elrond gave him even if he could not see his face. But all his twin said was, “Good.” He rolled over, taking most of Elros’ share of the blanket with him and all talk of war and wisdom was forgotten in Elros’ struggle to win it back.

***

Maglor knocked for them the next morning at the same time he knocked every day, as cheerful as he ever was. He sang to them as he braided their hair, an old song about the moon’s light upon the still waters of the Pools of Ivrin, and then took their hands to lead them down to breakfast. For once Elros did not try to pull away.

“It’s a lovely day today,” Maglor said as they wound through the ruined halls of Amon Ereb. “Good for riding.”

“Is that where your brother went?” Elrond asked.

“Don’t tell me that you’ll miss him! I’ve spoken to the cook and there’ll be lemon cakes for dinner tonight - all the more for us now that he’s away.”

“Lemon cakes are my favourites,” Elros said carefully and Maglor beamed and smoothed a hand through his hair. Elros grit his teeth but did not bite.

“We’ll practice your calligraphy today,” Maglor said, ushering them both into the great hall. “And then perhaps some geography. Ah, smell that bacon!”

Elrond caught Elros’ eye and smiled.

_Use your weakness. If your opponent’s overcommitted, they’ll leave an opening._

Elros smiled back.


	6. I hope it's already too late

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Halloween spooktacular! Maglor tells a story, Maedhros shares some family history, Elrond and Elros play the long game and Eluréd and Elurín remain a mystery.
> 
> Click [here](https://soundcloud.com/thelioninmybed/i-hope-its-already-too-late/s-GOKZL) for a dramatic reading by your humble author.

"That last morning, the brothers found the beast's lair. A gaping wound torn in the mountain's flank, a mouth yawning open lined with teeth of jagged rock.

“Lesser men, _wiser_ men might have abandoned the chase there but they were their father’s sons and never had learnt when to stop. They went down into the dark. Tall lead the way and the others joined hands behind him, as though they were children again. Bones crunched beneath their feet, sheep and cattle, elves and men.

“A sound in the dark, soft as a sigh, and when they looked they saw that Small was gone too.

“‘We should turn back,’ said Strong. ‘We should have turned back long ago.’

“‘It’s much too late for that,’ said Tall.

“‘Too late indeed,’ said the monster in the dark. Its eyes shone bright as jewels and-”

“Jewels?” said Maedhros from where he lay sprawled before the hearth. “And your allegory was so subtle until then.” He went to take a drink but Maglor, nettled, reached over and gave the bottle’s base a shove so that his brother choked and spluttered like a drowned cat.

“It’s a story for children,” he said as Maedhros cursed and shook wine-damp hair out of his eyes.

“And we want to hear it,” said Elrond.

Elros’ eyes were darkly intent. “How does it end?” he asked.

Maglor smiled, more grateful than he could say to have an appreciative audience once more. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“The monster swallowed them whole,” said Elros without hesitation. “Swords and armour and all.”

“But-” said Elrond. “ _But_ inside the monster’s stomach they found their brothers and all the other people that had been eaten, still alive. And because they still had their swords, they could cut their way out. The monster died and everyone went home.”

“We’ll make bards of the two of you yet. What would you like to hear next?” It was a good night for stories, late enough in the year that the dusk and the gnawing chill it brought had driven them all inside early. It was a time for roaring fires and, if not the companionship of friends and loved ones, as close an approximation as could be found.

Elrond twitched his ears. He had only recently learnt to do so and now would not stop. “Why don’t _you_ tell us a story, Uncle Maedhros?”

“Uncle?” said Maedhros. “Once upon a time we killed your uncles.”

“ _That’s_ not a story they should hear,” said Maglor, rising to his feet.

“No,” said Elros. “Tell it.”

“We ought to know,” said Elrond.

Maglor could not say no to those earnest looks and sat back down. Eluréd and Elurín were not one of _his_ crimes and it would perhaps not do much harm for their nephews to know their fate.

Though he had not had Maglor’s depth and breadth of training, Maedhros had learnt the same tricks of oratory in Tirion’s bright courts; he could project, emote, catch and hold an audience. No one would ever know from the hoarse, flat voice he spoke with now. “Our brother Celegorm was followed by men and women as wild and wilful as he. Fierce warriors but poor soldiers and I should have put a stop to it long before I did. After his death - it should please you to know that it was at your grandfather’s hand - they took it upon themselves to avenge him.

“This part you already know; they took your uncles and left them somewhere in the woods to starve. It was ill done. Foolish, wasteful and needlessly cruel. I took their weapons and their supplies and gave them the same chance they gave the boys. They cursed me but what of it? I’ve been cursed before, with more cause and by greater powers than they.

“I hoped that the boys might yet be found and so I sent search parties after them into those parts of the forests that we thought safe to traverse.”

“And went into Nan Dungortheb alone,” said Maglor, who had despaired for his brother then as he despaired of him now.

Maedhros shrugged. “I am my father’s son. It was midwinter and the snow lay deep. I’m not Celegorm but I did not need to be to follow the trail I found. Booted feet, small enough to be a child’s. Of course, I left tracks too and I was not the only hunter in those woods. Still, they were warier than I and I found my quarry before they found me.”

“You _found_ them?” Maglor could not help but interrupt. “You did not say that then.”

“Nor do I say it now. This was no Maia-blooded prince, for all he wore Dior’s livery. He was a servant boy.”

“How did he die?” said Elros.

“Exposure. Hundreds must have perished so.” Maedhros’ mouth twisted. “Children it did not profit me to seek.”

“Would you have let us freeze?” said Elrond. “If we’d been servant boys?”

“Yes.”

“We would not! And besides, my loves, you would not have died at Sirion,” Maglor put in hastily. “It was not winter when we found you, and Gil-Galad was not far behind us. You would have been safe no matter what happened. Still, Maedhros is not entirely wrong - one should go not lightly into war. It is not only princes that pay the cost. Remember that when you are grown.”

The twins exchanged a glance. “We will,” they chorused, though surely they were too young to understand such matters yet.

“The boy had not been dead for long,” Maedhros went on, when it became clear that no one else would speak. “The corpse was warm when I found it. Cold when the hunters found me.

“I’d hoped it would be the Doriathrim but it was my brother’s soldiers. If they’d had an ounce of sense between them then they might have sought a ransom but, as before, they thought only of revenge. Five against a cripple is hardly a fair fight but I had a sword and they were armed with stones and branches.

“I killed three. Two fled. I followed them further into the valley.”

Maglor wished he had some parchment to hand - there might be a story worth telling buried beneath his brother’s terse and stilted speech. There was surely an elegant battle scene to be made of it - a hero standing alone against a band of wicked murderers. Black winter trees, white snow and red Fëanorian blood. “Did you hope that they would lead you to the boys?”

“No. I thought to make an end of it.

“The valley was strange - not surprising given its past. Grey stone, grey trees, grey snow. Everything seemed soft about the edges. Unfocused. But then I was injured - more sorely than I realised at the time - and that might have been the cause. It was hard going. My wounds did not pain me yet but the snow dragged at my feet and branches caught my clothes. Still, the trail was clear; one was bleeding.

“Always, though, there are other hunters. This time I did not find them first.”

“Lucky them,” said Elros.

“Not really. Beneath a dense thicket of trees, their footprints stopped. So did any sign of blood.”

“You’re not entirely foolish,” Maglor interjected, “and you know your histories near as well as I. You must have guessed at what had happened.”

“So I did. A wiser man would have fled. I climbed one of the trees - more easily said than done with five numb fingers. The canopy was blanketed with snow, the trees bowing beneath its weight, and the weight of the bodies, neatly wrapped against the cold.

“I cut them down and cut them free.”

“You should have left them,” Elros said.

“It would have been ironic, I agree. They were not dead but their hearts scarcely beat and their skin was very cold. I could not wake them but when I dragged them to their feet they stayed standing and would walk if I forced them to.

“You should have left them,” Elros said again.

“It made no difference in the end; your uncles were revenged, on them if not on me. But it was not only soldiers that I found. There were bones aplenty, all long since picked clean - not _all_ deaths are mine to claim - and another lost child of Doriath. This one was still alive, if only just.

“The boy was sicker than the soldiers were and I had to carry him upon my back. That slowed us and the soldiers’ stumbling slowed us further; we would not make it back out before night fell. There was no danger in sight but the branches all about us shook despite the stillness of the air. The sun was hidden by grey cloud and the trees were thick but even so they did not attack yet; we were easy prey but would be even easier come the dusk.

“I walked on. What else could be done?”

“Plenty,” Maglor said. “Your obstinacy will be the death of you.”

Maedhros ignored him. “We had covered only a mile or two when something tickled at my neck. I brushed it away and walked on - we did not have time to waste. It came again though, and this time when I swept it off something dark fell to the snow at my feet.

“It was a spider, no bigger than that one in the corner there. Leave her, _she_ is harmless.” That to Elros who was reaching for a stone to throw. “It was a soft little thing and malformed - the disturbance must have caused it to hatch early.

“The body upon my back shivered suddenly, and I set it down. It writhed in the snow, skin twitching as though it were trying to crawl off his body. The right eye flickered beneath the lid and then pressed outward, the skin tearing like parchment-”

“The children will have nightmares,” Maglor said, a little belatedly - he had become caught up in the tale himself, consumed by the desire to _know_.

“We already do,” said Elrond, though his ears drooped and he looked quite ill. “It was another spider?”

“Yes. The first of half a hundred siblings that came crawling from his eyes and nose and mouth.”

“What did you do?” 

“I dealt with it the same way our father taught us deal with all our problems; with sword and fire. I killed him and the others and then built a pyre.”

“Weren’t the other spiders angry that you murdered their children?” said Elros. 

“Does your sympathy lie with them? They were, of course. Night drew in fast and though they did not like the fire I kindled, they circled just outside its light, drawing closer as the flames died down.”

“There were no spiders when we found you - I and the company you should have brought,” Maglor said, trying to sound reasonable.

“As I said, I had a head injury." Maedhros gestured, though it was unclear which scar he meant to indicate. "Maybe there were never any spiders. I might have dreamt it all.”

“There were bones amongst the ashes though.”

“Beleriand’s forests are more bones than trees, thanks to Morgoth and to us.”

“You haven’t answered anything,” Maglor said. True stories never ended neatly - just as their mother worked raw stone into art, it was a bard’s job to shape the incoherent facts into something with a meaning - but he had hoped for more than delusions, lies and half-truths. “Do you know what happened to the boys or not?”

“I know more than I wish to and that is little enough. I need another drink.” Maedhros groped for the bottle beside him and found it empty.

Maglor filled a glass for him from the decanter upon the table and watched him drain it in one long swallow. He poured one for himself as well and sipped at it more sedately. “I think it’s time for bed now, boys. Why don’t you go and change into your nightclothes? I’ll come up to sing your lullaby.” He waited for the twins to leave the room before adding, “I never finished my story.”

“You didn’t like the boys’ version?” Maedhros said. He lay back upon the floor, looking up at the spider spinning in her corner.

“I did. Of course I did. But I know how _you_ want it to end.” Sometimes being a good bard came down to knowing your audience, and a story for a story was only fair. “‘The brothers looked at the monster and then looked at each other, and could see no difference at all.’ Goodnight, brother,” Maglor said and went to see to his sons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is quite sloppy with the names in his story (and you can bet Maedhros pointed that out) - it shouldn’t be Strong, Small and Tall but Strong, Small and Third. He (and I) decided accuracy is less important than accessibility for those in the audience that can’t be fucked with the politics of Quenya naming conventions (and you can bet Elros can’t).


	7. I hope the fences we've mended fall down beneath their own weight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's this? What's this? There's something very wrong! It must be the Horrible Murderdads Christmas Special! In which our heroes share a meal and spare a thought for family not present. Will Elrond and Elros successfully escape their abductors? Will they get the pony that they wanted? Will _anyone_ learn the true meaning of Christmas? At least one of the answers is no.

Maglor let out a sigh of relief as he ducked into the blessed gloom of the stables - the sunlight really was intolerably bright that morning - and then a sigh of annoyance at the fug of horsey odours and raised voices that greeted him.

“-would be the kindest thing,” said the Master of Horse, her sallow cheeks darkened by fury.

“No doubt it would, but with the blood of Aman so diminished we can’t afford to lose him,” said his brother. “Get another foal off him and then you can put an end to it.”

“You appointed me to see to the welfare of these beasts.”

“Your diligence does you credit but I must see to the welfare of this encampment as a whole. He lives.”

“As my lord commands,” she snapped and stalked out, almost shouldering Maglor aside in her fury.

Maglor picked his way carefully around a pile of dung and leant over the door of the stall occupied by his brother and the horse in question. It was a handsome beast, vaguely familiar, a blood bay with a white star upon its brow. It stretched its neck in Maglor’s direction and gave a hopeful whiney but did not walk over to him as it so plainly wanted to.

“What did you do?” he asked.

“A necessary evil. Hinnor is lamed by barley-surfeit. Lobordis is right, he really should be put down, but not even our horses are let off so lightly.” Maedhros scratched at Hinnor’s withers and the beast snorted and leant against him.

“He was Curufin’s,” Maglor said, placing that fiery coat at last.

“His sire was - some wit named the foal the same.” Maedhros gave the horse a final pat and let himself out of the stall. “What did you want?”

It took a moment for Maglor to snatch up the dropped thread of his anger. “For you to stop stealing from the infirmary.”

“Stealing?” Maedhros said mildly. “It’s my fortress.”

“Don’t play at semantics with me. We had three bottles of tincture of opium last time I conducted an inventory. Two of them are missing.”

“How strange.”

“It’s unspeakably selfish of you. What happens next time a soldier is injured? On your orders no less?” Maglor baited.

On one of his brother’s bad days, such a tactic would have worked but Maedhros’ eyes were clear, his speech precise, and so Maglor was not surprised when he only shrugged. “It’s not irreplaceable. You can show the boys the preparation of it - I’m sure they’d be interested.” He smiled at some private joke.

“That isn’t the point.”

“I’ll stay out of the infirmary,” Maedhros promised, still amused.

Whatever else he’d become, his word would hold him and Maglor had no choice but to take him at it. “See that you do. You remember it’s Midwinter night?”

“Try as I might to forget it.”

“Dinner is an hour after sunset. The boys asked to prepare it themselves and have gone to a special effort. Please dress appropriately.”

Maedhros looked down at his torn breeches and muddy boots, his stained gambeson and the mail he wore atop it - the armour at least was well maintained. “I always do.”

Maglor let his voice soften. “Dress as befits the lord of Amon Ereb. Dress as _he_ would want to see you. At the very least wear something clean.”

“It will be just like Tirion.”

“It _will_ ,” Maglor said. He knew facetiousness when he heard it, knew his brother was determined to make himself and those around him as miserable as possible, but it did not matter; Maglor was willing to try and keep on trying for both of them. For the four of them, for ensuring the boys were safe and happy was more important still. “Help me set an example.”

“I fear I already have. Until tonight, little brother,” Maedhros said and walked away.

***

The kitchens, in pleasant contrast to the stables, were filled with cheerful chatter and the wholesome scents of cooking food. Maglor’s sons, in pleasant contrast to his brother, were coming along beautifully. Elrond, peaceable despite his sharp, inquiring mind, poured over a foxed recipe book as though it contained the secret of the Flame Imperishable. Elros, now that he was past the sullenness that had plagued him, was bright and merry, ordering the kitchen staff about with equal parts charm and imperiousness.

It felt good, so good, to know that, after everything, he was doing something right.

“Do you need any help, my darlings?” he asked them, planting a kiss upon the top of Elros’ head.

“You’ve done enough,” said Elros. “Let us take care of it.” He paused and then added, hesitantly, “Father.”

“Would you like some tea?” said Elrond solicitously.

“Thank you, that would be most kind.”

It was brewed strong and very bitter, despite the milk and honey Elros added. Maglor sipped once for politeness’ sake and then set it aside.

“I read Calarnith’s ‘An Essay on Possession in the Common Law’ as you asked us, Father,” Elrond said, turning away from the carrots he’d been chopping.

“What did you think?”

“It was...instructional.”

“The bit about stolen property especially,” said Elros. He was given to such obliqueness but, under Maglor’s considering gaze, he brightened. “Can we read a story next? I want to hear about Huan. Did he really talk?”

“He did, though only thrice, at greatest need. I never heard it myself.” Maglor had always been irked by that - how was he supposed to capture the Hound of Valinor’s words in poetic meter based on only third-hand accounts? Even Celegorm, who had loved him as a brother, had never heard Huan’s voice.

“Did he really kill a werewolf?” Elrond asked, as childlike as Maglor had ever heard him.

“He killed the two greatest wolves to ever walk the earth, and wounded Sauron besides. He was a noble creature and the best of friends, though he did have an unforgivable fondness for rolling in cow dung and then sleeping upon the end of one’s bed.”

“Was he truly the best of friends?” said Elros with childish slyness. “We heard he was a traitor.”

“At the last. But it is foolish, so very foolish, to judge by single deeds performed in desperation. We must look back upon a lifetime of sacrifice and valiant service.” Maglor let his voice go soft, let it fall back into the remembered cadence of a storyteller. “Here is a tale for you; before our leaguer broke, before Lúthien and her swain, before Draugluin and Carcharoth, my brothers and I - and Huan of course! - faced a werewolf half as great but thrice as cunning. This is the story of the Hunting of Faindroegil.”

He had told stories like this in an age long past, for a different pair of twins but, with the boys leaning in, eyes shining and all thoughts of cooking forgotten, the memory of those moments did not bring him pain.

Forgotten at his elbow, the tea went cold.

***

Of all their holdings, Amon Ereb had once been among the least but even in its ruin it was magnificent. Its great hall could seat three hundred and the ceiling soared so high that two trolls could have stood atop each other and not reached it. The scrollwork carved into the beams was delicate and lovely though much obscured by years of soot, cobwebs and the leavings of the bats that made their home there. When it grew dark enough, they would leave their roosts and flit about the great, shadowed space, chittering to each other and snatching moths from the air, swooping low enough to make the candles gutter.

Maglor had ordered woven garlands of evergreen branches be hung all about but thought, in hindsight, it had been a mistake. The dark holly leaves drank in the candlelight and the bright berries put him in mind of things that he would rather have forgotten.

So did the empty chairs.

“Where is everyone?” It was rare that all the household ate together - few of their remaining staff and soldiers were any more given to sociability than their lords - but Maglor thought that the occasion called for it. Certainly for more than the fifty that had appeared, the red and orange of their dress uniforms almost gaudy in the candlelight.

Maedhros, looking half a bat himself in his dark cloak, slumped in his seat. “They had other duties.”

“What will that do to morale?”

“Improve it, I should think. I know where I would rather be.”

“Wine, Uncle?” Elros said. There were jugs already upon the table and the boy took one up and stepped forwards. His hands shook a little, perhaps from the weight.

“It would be cruel to refuse when you have worked so hard.”

“We- we chose the vintage very carefully to accompany the food,” Elrond said, nervous and unhappy. “We wanted to make something you would enjoy.”

“I’m sure.”

Maglor took a sip from his own glass and made a show of smacking his lips in pleasure. In truth it was over-spiced and so unpleasantly bitter he would have thought it soured if he had not known better.

Across the table, Maedhros raised his eyebrows. “What did you season it with?”

“There wasn’t much in the cupboards,” said Elros. “We had to improvise.”

“We remembered,” said Elrond, taking his brother’s hand, “How they used to make it in the Havens and we w-wanted to share it with you. Is it too bitter?”

“Not at all,” said Maglor hurriedly, taking another sip.

Maedhros looked down at his wine as though he could read some truth in the lees. “Perhaps they should be allowed some. Half-Men that they are, they must be old enough.”

The boys were watching Maglor with bright, wary eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said firmly.  

“Water it for them.”

Maedhros reached for the jug but Maglor snatched it up with such force that the wine slopped onto his sleeve. “ _No!_ ”

“We’d rather not,” said Elros.

“Oh?” said Maedhros, leaning in like a man waiting to hear the last line of a jest.

Elros glanced pointedly at the goblet at his elbow, lip curled in distaste.

Maedhros laughed and sat back. “It seems I’ve set a good example after all. More for you then, little brother. Drink up.”

It was bitter, so very bitter, but Maglor did.

“Will you speak before I send for the first course, my lord?” said Tuluspen, stood behind his brother’s chair. A loyal woman or a stupid one, Maglor never had decided which it was.

Maedhros sighed and stood. Beneath the cloak and the ever-present armour, he had in fact changed into finer clothes - a dark grey linen shirt, embroidered at the seams with flame-bright silk. He raised his glass and the hall went still. “Our thanks to all of you for an Age of loyal service.”

There were no cheers from the soldiers, only nods of acceptance. Service to the memories of Fëanor and Finwë, to the ever-burning Oath, was a habit that ran too deep for anyone in this hall to break.

“And our thanks to the sons of Elwing, who prepared this meal in honour of their family. To just deserts. And desserts, which the kitchens promise we have in abundance.”

The cooks, inspired perhaps by the presence of the boys, had made more of an effort than was their usual wont. Pike from the moat, muddy flesh poached sweet in wine, snipe and woodcock wrapped in bacon, and the steaming flank of a roe deer cooked bloody-rare.

Maglor emptied his plate like one of the clockwork toys that Curufin had once crafted for his son, scarcely tasting any of it. Cheerful voices drifted to them from the lower tables, tongues loosened by drink and good cheer, but at the high table all was quiet. Maedhros ate little - he could hardly cut his own meat and he was not yet mad enough to tear at it with his teeth before the soldiers he commanded - and said even less. He watched as Maglor ministered to their sons and as the boys grew ever more restless with every emptied platter and drained glass.

“We’re finished,” said Elros. “May we be excused?”

“Not until you’ve eaten a proper meal, little sparrow,” Maglor said, ladling white peas onto his trencher and then, when the boy looked askance, adding an almond pastry also. His hands were unsteady and some peas spilled to roll across the table.

Both boys watched them, Elrond grave and Elros far too hopeful for a child looking at lost vegetables. Something in Maglor’s chest twisted and he reached for his glass again. Because he loved them. Because the taste was growing on him. Because his brother was not smiling anymore. Maedhros’ ears were flat against his head, his mouth blade-thin with displeasure.

Beneath them, the talk grew louder. With a trained ear Maglor could pick snatches of conversation from the drone - a smith flirted with the soldier sat across from her, someone had a bottle of half-decent mead in their quarters and was inclined to share, a weaver thought his neighbour was hogging all the chitterlings, and an enterprising serving girl was taking bets on if it was orcs or other elves that killed them all first.

Nothing new. Nothing interesting. He emptied his glass.

Beneath the table Maedhros’ heavy boot connected with his ankle and he looked up to find his brother frowning.

“More wine, Lord?” said Tuluspen. Maglor nodded and she reached for the jug but Maedhros moved faster, knocking her elbow so that it tipped over, slopping dark wine over the darker wood. It might have been taken for a drunken mishap but Maedhros had hardly touched his glass.

Maglor carefully rolled the spilt peas clear of the spreading puddle. It was very red and he didn’t want them getting stained. Celegorm had worn green this night, near two score years ago, but by the end the winter night had made it black.

Black upon the snow, black in his fair hair. He’d written a poem about it.

“We don’t want to hear it,” said Maedhros.

That was for the best; it hadn’t been that good. Curufin wore red, of course, but what was Caranthir wearing?

“Not his helmet or it would be he telling you to be silent.”

Black, Maglor decided, made most sense for their dark brother - it suited his colouring and hid the stains the best. Who wouldn’t prefer an elegant fabrication to an unsightly truth?

“Tuluspen, see him to his chambers if you would.”

“Sir.”

She must have done so, though the journey was a blur.

His mind was pleasantly blank as he filled a goblet with water from an ewer, added salt and stirred. The chamberpot was in its usual place beneath the bed and he managed to drag it out upon his second attempt and bring the saltwater to his lips upon the third.

When he had finished retching, had wiped his mouth and scrubbed his eyes dry, he straightened up to find his brother watching him from the doorway, a long-limbed shadow thrown by the torches in the hall. “What do you think that proved?” Maedhros asked, voice soft in a way that, an age ago, would have implied sympathy. “Tonight, of all nights?”

“You realise there are more dangerous adulterations they could have made? Hemlock and nightshade, arsenic and lye - they did not want me dead.”

Backlit as he was, Maglor could not make out his brother’s expression, only the unnerving glimmer of his eyes. “Keep it that way. If they try again I’ll see them served the same as you. I shan’t lose again.”

“Hypocrite,” Maglor spat. “It’s you that encourages them in this.”

“I did not force you to drink. They drugged the guards on watch as well - I’ve posted replacements and found the store of provisions they’d cached. Months they must have been planning it. A fair attempt given their age.”

“They’re clever boys,” Maglor said, unable to keep his pride from colouring his voice.

“They’re hostages. Not wards. Not pets.”

“They’re children. They’re _mine_.”

“Then control them better,” Maedhros said evenly. “I confiscated this,” he added, stepping into the room and holding up a delicate glass phial, a quarter full of brownish liquid.

“Did you hurt them?”

Maedhros ignored the question. “I’ll see to it that they can’t get their hands on it again.” He leant forwards and clinked the bottle against Maglor’s cup of saltwater. “Cheers.”

All the anger he had not let himself feel came bubbling up, sour upon his tongue as the bile had been. He seized his brother by the collar, linen crumpling, the embroidery coarse beneath his fingers. “You promised that you wouldn’t.”

“I promised to stay out of the infirmary,” said Maedhros. “And so I did. But I’ll keep the spirit of the oath as well - it’s for Hinnor.”

“I’ll come with you then.” It might have been spite that caused him to speak so - the implication that he did not trust his brother’s word. It might not have been.

Maedhros placed his hand flat upon Maglor’s chest and pushed - the bed frame hit the backs of his knees and he sat down heavily. “You can barely stand. Sleep it off.”

Irritated all over again, Maglor struggled back to his feet. “Elrond will want to help - he’s coming on very nicely in his studies and healing is his favourite.”

Something moved behind his brother’s eyes, like the sharp-toothed fish that swam beneath the frozen moat.  “Fetch them then. Or don’t. I’ll be in the stables either way.”

***

Maedhros had locked the twins in the cellars and not troubled to leave them a light. When Maglor found them, a guttering taper in his hand, they cringed from its brightness. There were tears on both their cheeks and Elros’ knuckles were raw from pounding upon the door.

“I’m not angry,” Maglor said gently, reaching out with his free hand. “You should not fear my anger. But I am very disappointed in you both. I had thought that we were past this. I had thought that I could trust you.”

Neither boy would speak and Maglor sighed. “Come with me.” They still thought that he would hurt them even now, Maglor realised sadly

“Or what?”

“Or stay down here, sulking in the dark. The choice is yours.”

It was, unexpectedly, Elros that stood first, dragging his brother up with him. “It was my idea. It was all me. I’m not afraid.”

 _You needn’t ever fear me_ , Maglor might have said but there was nothing to be gained by arguing in circles in the dark when he might show them that instead. He drew back his hand and stood, leaving them to follow him or linger as they willed.

***

The stables were near as dark as the cellar, lit only by starlight and their lantern, but were vastly more welcoming. Horses shuffled sleepily in their stalls and nickered at them curiously.

Maedhros was waiting for them, sat upon an overturned feed bucket, out of consideration or because he needed the extra pair of hands. At their approach, he tossed a small sack at Elrond and the boy snatched it neatly from the air.

“Pour the tincture over the bread,” he said. “Seven drops ought to do it - and then the honey to mask the taste. Horses are less suspicious than men and far more easily duped.”

Elrond winced. Elros did not.

“This was Amras’ trick,” Maglor explained as Elros pulled the heel of a loaf from the sack and then a small crock of honey. “Celegorm never bothered, he’d talk his horses into eating whatever he needed them to.”

The bucket creaked as Maedhros shifted, stretching out his legs. “Browbeat, you mean.”

“Poor beasts. They loved him, though. If he were still-”

“That’s enough,” Maedhros said and it was a moment before Maglor realised he had been speaking not to him but Elrond, whose hands were shining stickily in the lantern light.

Hinnor snorted and stretched his long neck over the door to his stall, ears pricked eagerly forwards, and Elrond held out the bread to him, serious as any adult healer ministering to a patient.

“Keep your palm flat,” Maglor told him. “Fingers together.”

“Unless you envy me the hook,” his brother added.

Elrond drew back with a nervous, forced giggle and crouched to wipe his hand clean of horse spit upon the straw. “We were learning to ride,” he said. “Before you...found us.”

Maglor sighed to himself. Children were so thoughtless. “Did you think to flee on foot? I could tell you the story of the last little boys that ran away on a cold Midwinter night, but Maedhros already has.”

“You should teach us then,” said Elros. “So we don’t die like our uncles.”

“If Hinnor does sire that foal then, by all means, show them the breaking of it,” said Maedhros, standing and dusting off his breeches. “But I shall take no part.”

“It’s much too late for that,” said Maglor but his brother pretended not to hear as he stalked out into the cold.

“There’s still some bread left,” said Elrond, holding it out for inspection. “Can Elros feed the other horses?” Elros, behind him, kicked at a pile of dung and pretended that he did not care to.

“Of course.” Maglor sat down upon the bucket his brother had vacated and did not hug them or stroke their hair as he so badly wanted to.

“You _should_ be angry,” Elros said but took the crust that Elrond passed him.

“Our time together is too short to waste on bitterness.” It could be the Gift of Men that brought an end them but that was a mercy beyond hoping.

“That’s right,” said Elros, who was still young enough and fierce enough to think some other escape still possible. He yelped as Maedhros’ grey mare nipped at his sleeve in search of more food.

“That’s good advice,” said Elrond, sticky-handed all over again.

There was something in his tone that Maglor did not like, something more disquieting than their scheming or their fury but he could not put a name to it or did not want to. “Whatever was I thinking?” he said, shooing them both towards the door. “It’s long past your bedtime. Wish the horses a good night.”

They did and then set out towards the keep, following his brother’s frosted-over footprints in the slush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barley surfeit is (probably) an ancient name for laminitis, one of the many horrible afflictions horses are subject to. Caused by eating too much grass, its primary symptoms are the bones falling out of their feet. If your own horse suffers from it, please see a qualified veterinarian. Do NOT give your horse opium, it rarely helps.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't uploaded everything in this series for, uh, tonal reasons, but if you want some chatter plus ficlets more blackly comedic than serious, check out my ['the WORST babysitters'](http://thelioninmybed.tumblr.com/tagged/the-worst-babysitters) tag.


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